Style for the Age
by tklivory
Summary: A bold rescue must occur as a Warden languishes in Fort Drakon, and who better to accomplish it than a bold assassin from Antiva? Still, even the ridiculously awesome Zevran needs some persuasion to do so when the job calls for a particular type of outfit...


"You've _got _to be joking."

Alistair regarded Zevran with a straight face. "I _never _joke."

This statement failed to make the disgusted look on Zevran's face fade away. "I refuse. If anyone saw me like this, I would instantly lose all credibility for my status as ridiculously awesome."

The Warden groaned. "Look, all we need to do is-"

"-distract the guards, slip inside a heavily guarded fortress, and fight our way out. I understand this. But _not_... and let me repeat this, _not _dressed like... _this_."

Leliana cleared her throat. "Alistair, if I may?"

"Be my guest," the human said, muttering about stubborn elves as he stamped away.

The bard regarded Zevran with a brittle smile. "I agree, the outfit is... rather lacking in..." She paused, groping for a word.

"Style? Color sense? Fashion? _Fabric_?" He gestured at where the orange and pink pants ended above his knee. "Honestly, who wears clothing that exposes such lackluster joints to public scrutiny. Why could it not end a few inches below the belly button instead?" He smiled suggestively at the red-haired beauty. "I certainly think the public would appreciate that more."

Leliana's brow rose. "On Oghren as well?"

The assassin considered that with pursed lips. "Hmmm... An excellent point, my dear. But _why _does it have to be me and that... that... walking distillation factory? I would lose almost as much credibility being seen with him as being seen in..." He regarded the gauche purple and teal sleeves with distaste. "...this atrocious _abomination_. And yes, I do rank what I'm wearing against the worst foe we ever fought in the Tower, just so you know."

Narrow blue eyes regarded him for a few seconds. "They know Alistair by sight, women never go to the Keep except for certain purposes, Wynne is still abed after the rescue attempt, Sten is... well, Sten, and Morrigan refuses to wear the Chantry robe." She held up her hand to still his burgeoning objection. "And I am _far _more frightened of what she could do to me than anything you could threaten," she added firmly.

"Be that as it may, I _still _don't see why this _frippery _will succeed where poison and sneaking will not." His hands reached up and removed the polka dotted turban, his mouth set in a moue of distaste as he turned it around in his hands, pondering who would have put fuschia dots onto a lime green background. Glancing up to meet her eyes, he added, "Believe me, my dear cunning bard, there is _no _argument you can use to convince me to venture forth in this crime against eyes everywhere."

_"Ooooh!"_ she moaned in frustration, hands clenched at her side. "If only you were capable of thinking beyond your..." She paused, then grinned, a naughty glint coming into her eyes. Slowly she leaned forward so that she could speak directly into his ear, allowing her shirt to drape open so he had an _excellent _view of her... tracts of land. "If you do what I ask of you and bring Terrence back unharmed, I will allow you to _participate _in our celebration."

Zevran blinked, then narrowed his own eyes, thinking of Terrence and Leliana... celebrating... with a certain handsome Antivan assassin hopefully in between them... "You... promise?" he said, eyes intent on curves and valleys and various other luscious geography. He _thought _that Terrence had looked at him oddly a couple of times when he had first joined the party, but never thought for an instant that he would ever leave Leliana, so he had not pursued the implication of that gaze.

The sensitive flesh of his ear felt the bard's soft lips curve into a smile before a hot, wet warmth enclosed the tip of his ear and slowly dragged itself off, her teeth grazing the cartilage _just so_. He couldn't possibly suppress the resultant shiver, and knew her smile was likely triumphant even as she added, "I'll make _sure _Terrence knows who to thank for his escape, no?"

"Yes, well-" A crack in his voice ruined his attempt at being suave, so he sighed even as the horrid turban was tucked back onto his head. Clearing his throat while his knees firmed up, he huffed slightly, "_Fine_. But I expect Antivan brandy as well, mind."

The corner of her mouth tugged suspiciously upwards as she inclined her head. "Of course." She made a shooing motion with her hands. "Have fun storming the Castle!"

As Zevran and Oghren walked to Fort Drakon, Zevran winced at every single laugh he and the dwarf elicited from passersby. "So what did she promise you, my friend?" he asked of the dwarf idly.

"Oh, heh heh, the lass promised me some sweet, juicy rump roast, if you know what I mean," the dwarf chuckled nastily.

"Ah... I _hope _I do not know what you mean," Zevran said a trifle anxiously.

"Yup. Schmooples will officially be lunch once we get back to Eamon's Estate." He shrugged his expansive shoulders and dug some stale cheese out of his beard absently. "Serves the little bugger right, I say."

Zevran breathed a _sotto voce_ sigh of relief. "Ah, yes, I quite agree. Now," he said briskly, "let us go entertain some guards right out of a prisoner, yes?" His hands adjusted the tan collar of his shirt enough to that at least it was sharply creased. _Even a clown has to have _some _standards,_ he reasoned with himself, ignoring the Mabari that collapsed with laughter as they passed.


End file.
